Page 5 of Can You Take It?

All hail the devilis scrawled across the walls in Olivia’s blood, a message as cryptic as it is disturbing. As I take a sip of my drink, Luna and Noah chime in with their opinions.

“Rick, this looks like the work of a meticulous psychopath. The ritualistic elements and the message on the wall scream that this person is unhinged,” Luna says.

“The blood splatter patterns suggest a violent struggle. It’s almost as if the victim fought back, and the unsub took pleasure in it,” Noah adds.

I lean back in my chair. “This is a power play, no doubt about it. The unsub wants us to feel their control over the situation.”

We continue to toss around our theories like a game of darts, Luna and Noah each adding their own perspective to the grisly puzzle.

“I think this unsub might have a fascination with the occult.‘All hail the devil’written on the walls, the ritualistic murder—it all suggests someone deep into that shit.”

Noah nods in agreement, “Yeah, and the victim’s age falls within the previous pattern.”

I take another sip of my drink, letting their ideas wash over me. “You’re right, it’s not entirely random. The victims, all aged 23 to 26, they’re specifically chosen for a reason.”

Just as I’m about to elaborate, Emily, another profiler on the team, joins in. She’s visibly frustrated. “This case is driving me crazy, guys. We can’t seem to pin this fucker down.”

“I get it, Em. We’re all feeling the pressure. But the more we talk this through, the closer we get to finding this son of a bitch.”

My phone rings, and as I pick it up, I hear the familiar voice of our dispatcher. “Agent Reynolds, we’ve got another one. The address is 45 Elm Street.”

Without a word, I hang up, and the three of us head out to the scene. I prefer driving my trusty SUV when we’re on a case like this; it gives me a sense of control.

As we pile into the car, Noah starts filling me in. “The victim’s name is Cassie Taylor, twenty-five years old. There’s a witness, too, a guy named Liam who called 911.”

I nod, gripping the steering wheel tight. “Finally, someone or something who’s seen this fucker.”

We speed through the city streets. The thought of finally having a witness, a potential break in this gruesome pattern, fuels our determination to catch this monster once and for all.

We’re racing to the scene when I come to a halt at a red light. While I’m sitting there, working to keep my focus on the case, my eyes drift around.

That’s when I spot a woman in the car next to us, adjusting her bra in a way that emphasizes her cleavage. She flashes me a flirtatious smile, and all I can do is groan. I don’t have time for this shit right now.

But she’s not done. With a sultry tone, she shouts, “Officer, can I get your number?”

“Sure, it’s 911,” I smirk.

The woman’s pout deepens, and she actually pouts like a child denied candy. I shake my head, realizing the wait at this never-ending light isn’t worth it.

So, breaking the rules, I hit the gas and race off, leaving the flirtatious distraction behind. We’ve got a case to solve, and there’s no time for anything else, no matter how tempting it may be.

We finally reach the crime scene. Forensics and crime scene photographers are already hard at work. The crime scene is sectioned off, and the tapes are doing their job—keeping the curious onlookers at bay.

I spot a homicide detective, and we exchange nods before I ask, “What do we have?”

He grimaces, clearly not thrilled with what’s unfolded here. “The guy who called, Liam, isn’t our main witness. He showed up after the attack and was only able to catch a glimpse of the bastard from behind. But we’ve got a girl, a roommate, who was here during the whole thing. She’s the real deal.”

My heart sinks at the revelation. The Ghostface killer has struck again, and this time, he’s left behind more than just a corpse. The roommate’s got a massive slash on her leg, thankfully the medics have taken care of the bleeding.

I make my way towards the survivor, who turns out to beIzel Montclair. She’s smaller than I anticipated, barely 5’3” with a delicate, almost fragile frame. But there’s a certain sharpness about her that cuts right through the frailty of her appearance. Her pale skin has a porcelain-like quality, making the contrast with her dark brown hair even more striking as it falls in soft waves around her shoulders.

Her face... it’s captivating, but not in the conventional sense. There’s a tension in the way her high cheekbones frame her features, like she’s always on guard. Her nose is straight, refined, and her full lips are set in a way that makes it clear she’s not easily swayed. There’s a beauty to her, sure, but it’s the kind of beauty that warns you to tread carefully.

But it’s her eyes that draw me in. Every profiler knows that eyes are windows, but hers… hers are doors I’d be a fool not to want to open. Her mismatched eyes—one dark brown, deep as a midnight forest, the other a crystalline ocean blue. The brown eye feels hidden, a veil of mysteries, while the blue eye shines with intelligence and a challenge. The mix is captivating, like seeing two sides of her soul; one eye that draws me into a past I can’t access and another that challenges me to try.

Izel Montclair might look like the perfect victim to most, but something tells me she's far more than that.

I take a moment to gather my thoughts, ensuring my approach is both professional and empathetic.

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